Greenhouse 8
by Nimbus 1944
Summary: Draco noticed. She was well-rounded. She was down-to-earth. She was alone. She was... Pomona.


Original story material is the property of the fanfic author; other material of Rowling et al. falls under the usual disclaimer.

* * *

For witlessness, take from the body of the wort mandrake to  
the weight of three nummia. Administer with drink, or warm  
water if he finds it more convenient. Soon he will be healed.  
- Apuleius' _Herbarium  
_

"But it's almost 9 PM," said Crabbe, in a rare display of brilliance.

"I'm a Prefect;" said Draco. "I can be out and around."

"You never go out on a Saturday," elocuted Goyle, his other follower.

Draco sighed. "Enough! Why don't you two... oh, go play chess or something?"

"Chess?" said Crabbe, looking like he had been asked to recite Hamlet's soliloquy.

"Whatever," said Draco, and exited the Slytherin common room.

_"Chess?"_ said a puzzled Goyle.

Draco followed the narrow, dimly-lit subterranean hall from Slytherin Dungeon to the main school building, up the stairwell, then quickly across the inner courtyard, through the south doors and into the greenhouses. His goal of the evening would be found there -- amidst the seedling trays and clay pots.

* * *

Draco's wandering eyes had catalogued all the younger women of Hogwarts -- well, certainly not the First and Second Year twinkies, and nothing seriously worth seeing in Third and Fourth Year, but it got better after that. 

Draco found the older girls more appealing in looks and brains. Of course, they thought he was an annoying, pointy-faced, self-important, gray-eyed little twit. Generally, they told him to go chase his tail, and how to proceed once he caught it.

There was Pansy Parkinson, and she liked to be around him -- but she was just a girlfriend of convenience, a drab show piece, serving little purpose in his life. He had no feelings for her.

Once, a Slytherin had suggested he entice and conquer Granger, the mudblood, as a sort of ultimate insult to her and the Gryffindors. Draco did not seriously consider that idea, and doubted she would, either. She had punched him in the face for less.

Draco, feeling unfulfilled, grew tired of this frustration, and his affections took a strange but all-too-common turn. He imagined himself with an older woman.

Draco's pureblood upbringing by private tutors isolated him from the Muggle world of movie stars, singers, models and other such figures. Since he spent most of the year at Hogwarts, his idea of an older woman would probably be school staff.

Beauty and pure blood were not necessities. This sort of relationship would not be permanent nor public; only Draco's satisfaction mattered for a moment. She should prove to be more settled than any fickle teenager, more complete, more self-confident -- and more interested in him than any young girl would be. She should be lonely, more willing. What others her age had overlooked, he could briefly enjoy, for what she was worth.

There weren't that many women on the staff; the field quickly narrowed down to one. She had that lovely glow that comes over a woman in mid-life. Her eyes were sharp and attentive. She was his height. She was generously well-rounded in all the best places.

She was down-to-earth. She was alone. She was --

Pomona Sprout.

(Oh, don't laugh. It's not nearly as funny as imagining that Hermione adores, say, Snape. Now _that's_ ridiculous.)

Draco's needs were utilitarian, yet his mind thrived on the false excitement of all forbidden fruit, the thrill of any sidestep off the clear path. He pondered her very name -- _Pomona_ - fruit-bearing; _Sprout_ - the springing forth of life, the spurt of growth.

Perchance, tonight.

* * *

It had begun almost a week ago, on Monday morning. He was due in a daily Herbology review class, preparing for OWLs. By accident, he had arrived late. 

As a deterrent to tardiness, Sprout usually employed the offenders, keeping them next to her and calling upon them for answers. Thus, Draco was unable to reach his usual position at the far end of the greenhouse. She frequently turned his way, looking him in the eyes, questioning his memory of things herbological. He stumbled through it, while discovering disturbing new feelings about his professor.

On Tuesday, he acted in a manner most unusual. He stopped to groom himself before her class, and in doing so, purposely delayed himself so long that he could not help but be the last to arrive. Once again he stood next to her, and was called upon to deliver; this time, he had studied for once, and had all the answers. Pleased, she smiled. He smiled, hoping she noticed. For some reason, he made a point to look at her left hand, assuring himself that there was no ring to suggest a man in her life.

On Wednesday, another last-minute arrival. She seemed rather surprised that he would do that again, but paid it no mind. Once, when reaching past him for a pot, she happened to lean against him. Rather than moving, Draco stood his ground, and he found he strangely enjoyed such accidental contact, the back of his arm against her. A few minutes later, he shifted position, brushing against her as she had brushed him. _She enjoys it,_ he thought. _And she knows I know. This might not be so bad after all!_

There was no one he could tell about it, or would. How the sun glinted in her hair! In his heart, Draco was sure she was aware why he came late. He knew in his heart she called on him so they could look at each other, up close, and in front of everyone -- how daring a display!

On Thursday, he was still by her side. When she passed out gloves to the students, Draco made sure he put one hand on hers, held it for the merest moment, then slid away from it onto the pile of gloves. She obviously noticed, and looked at him with her lips parted. Anyone else might think it was from bafflement about a juvenile act, but not Draco. He interpreted her look as speechless adoration, and slyly smiled at her, then winked.

He knew that she roomed alone in a cottage at the far end of the greenhouse rows. While on prefect rounds on a Thursday night, he tried to conceive of some reason why he might knock on her door at a late hour. Would she welcome him in? Would she feel free to talk about it? Would she disclose the feelings she so overtly displayed every day, those little hints here and there in class? Would she dare to break the ice, pour out her heart, tell him of her lonely desires? No doubt she would swear him to silence, for fear of losing her position at the school; all the better for preserving his own reputation. If he asked her, he knew she would gladly surrender to his whims, teacher to student!

On Friday, he was again late. Crabbe and Goyle were beginning to wonder why Malfoy separated from them on the way to Herbology every morning. They tried to stay with him, but somehow never succeeded. Every day, they saw him end up in the hot-seat position at the front, where Sprout -- who he had always called "that fat, ugly, dirty witch" -- bombarded their dorm mate with questions. _She must really hate him_, they thought. _She must be punishing him. Bet he wishes he were somewhere else_.

That day, she asked him a review question about mandrake propagation. His answer suggested grafting a potent young plant to a mature plant. Hermione considered that to be the strangest answer; they had covered the process of root-cutting and repotting in Second Year. _Malfoy has been acting very weird lately_, she thought.

On Saturday morning, Sprout made the rounds of her greenhouses as usual. She was charming a fog to mist her seedlings when Draco wandered in.

Draco was excited and driven. This was his first chance to speak to her alone since he had come to realise how much he meant to her. She was dressed in her usual gardening outfit. "That's a very nice blouse," he began. "It looks so well on you."

She turned to look at him. "Why, thank you. No points, I'm afraid, for compliments! What brings you here, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Oh, it's Saturday; please call me Draco. I was just wondering if there was anything I can do for you. I'm available."

"I don't really have many tasks on the weekend, Draco. I'm just misting the Tumtum trees, then I'm off."

"I'm sure you can think of wonderful ways to enjoy the weekend. You have a most attractive Tumtum, by the way."

"Oh, really? Imagine that... Well, I'm glad you like it. Tell me, how come you've been tardy in every class this week? Usually, I see you ensconced with your mates, as far back out of sight in the jungle as possible."

"You can't see everything back there. There's so much to see up front. Close contact is always better, isn't it? I feel closer to nature when I can actually see it and touch it. Don't you feel the same way? We should be close enough to sense it, enjoy it… love it…"

"I see. So, are you planning to be late often now?"

"Oh, I might be late every day. I didn't think you would mind, Pomona. You're my source for all I have to learn about biology, and I'm sure you have much to teach me. Of course, we could probably talk it over more frankly out of hours. Even now is not the best time; someone might walk in on us at any moment."

"And what are you suggesting we do about this, Draco?"

"There's more private places… you and I, in your cottage, tonight perhaps?"

"Hm. Well, Draco, like you, I actually prefer being close to nature at such moments. Why not here? Greenhouse 8, say, at 9 PM?"

"Wicked."

"No doubt. I'll met you then, Draco. Be discreet about this, of course."

"Of course. I'll be there for you at 9, Pomona."

* * *

So, at 9 PM, Draco passed through the dark of Greenhouse 4 on the way to his goal. The furgler blossoms nattered between themselves at the sight of this unusual night visitor. 

As promised, she was waiting for him in Greenhouse 8. Sprout's misting charm had neatly fogged the windows. A few dim torches were lit; an iron fire tray danced with well-peppered salamanders, warming the room. All of this, together with the fresh scent of the plants, made it seem like an encounter in a flower garden on a Spring night.

"You came," she said softly. "I knew you would."

"Of course." He was taken aback; she looked quite different. Her hair was up, and she wore a casual outfit and a light jumper.

From under his robe, he brought out a bottle labeled Chateau Marivaux 1932, and two small cups. "This should loosen our inhibitions a bit."

"We think alike, Draco," said Sprout. She reached behind the pots and produced a bucket of ice water. Draco poured two cups, then put the bottle in the bucket.

"This is also for inhibitions," she said, uncorking a tiny vial. "What do you remember of the applications of extract of mandrake root?"

Draco smiled slyly. "Wicked! Isn't that an hypnotic -- and an aphrodisiac? Rather potent, as I remember."

"So say the legends. I've never met a man who knew its true properties, and yet was brave enough to take some."

"I wouldn't object. Would you give some to your man?"

"Draco, I'm sure it will work for you tonight, just as the books say -- just the way I'd like it. A bit in your wine, perhaps?"

"Of course. Are you taking some yourself?"

"I wouldn't take any more than I know to take. I have to mind my limits."

"Oh? You took some already, did you, to be ready for me? A strong dose, I hope. That should make the evening very interesting."

"Tell me, Draco; what do you find attractive about me?"

"Perhaps, that you're so...well-rounded. I think I will enjoy that. And what do you find most attractive about me?"

"That would be hard to say. In the long run, of course, I'm in awe of your strong ancestral roots."

"Ancestral roots? Really? I'm surprised. Other than my looks, why is that important? It's not like we're getting married, y'know."

"Come now, Draco. Even stolen moments in dark places might prove to involve blood lines."

Draco hesitated. "But... you're a biologist, and a witch! Wouldn't you... like, know how to... prevent that?"

"Oh, I know how, but why would I? I would imagine a Malfoy would be an excellent line for our children."

"WHAT?!"

"The secret will leak out, of course, all too soon. If anything, I'd be the one dropping hints, letting the world suspect us."

"THE WORLD?"

"In truth, I can hardly wait for them all to discover that you're my lover."

"LOVER?"

"They'll know how anxious you must be to come of age. How proud your father will be of his manly son, ignoring the ridicule of his peers, daring to serve his teacher's romantic needs -- and father the family she had always wanted!"

There was a moment of staggering silence. (Or, dare we say, a pregnant pause?) Draco's eyes darted about as he assessed his situation. Then, he had only one word for it:

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!"

His cup of wine dropped to the dirt floor. In total wide-eyed terror, Malfoy fled the greenhouse complex. He was off the stairs and into the tunnel to the dungeons in less than three minutes flat, probably a new indoor broomless ground-speed record -- and without running into a wall, even once. Biology was suddenly the last thing on his mind.

In Greenhouse 8, Sprout relaxed. "I think that means no," she said aloud.

From under a trestle table, a tabby cat scampered out and transfigured.

"I'd agree, Mona," replied a smiling McGonagall, striding forward in a winter robe.

"A sad day, Min. Another teenage heart has been broken, another adoration of a teacher has faded. Ohhh, the tragedy -- all that wasted enthusiasm and unsung emotion, and all for an ungrateful old frump."

"Even in cat form, I'm amazed I kept from laughing aloud through the whole thing."

"Well-rounded, am I?" said Sprout. "As far as I know, it's my lot in life to be short, fat and dowdy. First, widowed too soon; now, lonely too long. Alas, alas." She put the back of a hand to her forehead, rocking her head from side to side in mock despair, before chuckling and sipping some more wine.

McGonagall smirked. "You played it very well. I worry on these occasions when a woman professor is being pursued. Some are more persistant and physical than this one."

"Oh, he was already getting touchy-feely in class, as I told you. Of course, I could have been severe right then and there -- just shame him in front of the others. But that's a bit much. Well, now we've broken it to him gently and he's got it. He just hadn't thought it all out clearly."

"Hmm. Chateau Marivaux; that's a bottle from Nicholas Flamel's estate. We must tell Albus that Slytherin has cracked the wine cellar password."

"Yes. Malfoy knows how to pick a good wine, at least! By the way, it was reassuring to know you were in the room as a witness. I must thank everyone at the next staff meeting for insisting on that precaution."

"Remarkable, how quickly he went for the mandrake root extract. Hypnotic aphrodisiac, indeed!"

Sprout laughed. "Oh, he wanted to believe that old Muggle myth so badly. If he paid attention in class, he might have remembered the true characteristics -- that even a tiny bit of fresh root is a marvelous emetic and laxative. He should be discovering that any moment now."

"What were you going to do if he became agressive before the mandrake took hold?"

"Oh, I've been through this before, in my better days. Even without magic, I could have had this little fiend chilled out in a second; that was the real reason for having a bucket of ice water nearby. A sip of wine, Min?"


End file.
